The Creation of a Rag Doll
by Problem Gurl
Summary: Ever wondered how Sally came to be? R&R, if you please.


Originally, she was a desire. Just a dream. For so long, he had struggled for success, and for so long, he had failed. Finklestein had never imagined that _this _particular endeavor, this countless effort, would bear a fruitful result.

He had worked ruthlessly, possessed by a maddening vigor, that drove his deft fingers to fly with the needle. He worked for thirteen days, and thirteen nights, so absorbed in his work was he. Thirteen nights seems like a ludicrous amount of work, but Finklestein was driven.

At dawn, of the thirteenth day, the Doctor stopped working. He lowered his hands, and wheeled himself away from what was once his project, his dream. It appeared to be a reality, the corpse.

For truly, it was that.

Her ghastly imperfection was touching, her scars, blue tinged skin, flaming red hair, and her modest body made her charming, made he beautiful. With her round eyes closed, he had no idea how they would look when open, but wondered if he would see life in them. He was not finished, not yet.

Fumbling with his skull cap, Finklestein ran an expert hand over the various parts of his brain, settling randomly on which he would give to this still body on the table before him. Clutching the piece of brain in both of his hands, the Doctor placed it in the corpse's head.

After sewing her scalp back together, he tenderly lifted on of her chilled hands, admiring the smooth texture of her skin, the lean grace of her fingers… the gentle slope of her breasts. Brushing his comical lips across the top of the hand, the Doctor murmured a reassurance. More to himself than to his rag doll.

Attaching two cables to the doll's head, Finklestein wheeled himself away from the platform, and towards a control board, and a single lever. Tonight, a thunder storm had been predicted. Lightening was assumed, but it's presence could almost be guaranteed in Halloweentown.

That night, a bolt of electricity shot across the sky.

Finklestein was eager, on the edge of his seat, salivating. As another bolt of lightning illuminated the night sky, he hauled the lever back.

Currents of electricity ran down two cables, the very ones attached to the Doctor's immobile rag doll.

At the very moment that the currents connected to the doll's brain, thunder crashed in the sky, setting the manor a-tremble.

And then, the lights went out, casting the work room into complete, utter, impenetratable blackness.

When the lights returned, Finklestein was staring intently at the rag doll, from behind his incredibly thick, incredibly filthy little glasses. Leaning forward in his automated wheelchair, the Doctor observed it, for any motion whatsoever. It took a moment, a moment that appeared so long that he was almost crushed by failure. But then… a twitch. He saw a single finger make the tiniest of movements.

Gradually, the rag doll became more animated. As if she was testing her various limbs, curling her fingers, wiggling her toes, arching her back. It took some time though, before she opened her eyes.

Exultation rose like bile in the Doctor's body, for a moment he was (completely) paralyzed with triumph.

The rag doll first moved her head to the right, and then slowly, but not hesitantly, to the left. She blinked her huge eyes slowly, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. She was not quite awestricken, for the circumstances of her situation had not yet dawned on her, but she was beginning to grow… well, she wasn't sure. She was filled with an insatiable desire to ask questions.

The Doctor moved his chair toward her, appraising the startled expression on her face. She was his. She was alive. The matter of how long was inconsequential at the moment, for if she lost her artificial life, he could improve on his notes (for he always kept _very _detailed notes) and make another. It was the fact that this one had woken up.

Leering over her, there was a very funny looking man. She assumed it was a man. But what did she know? Sucking a great gust of air into her lungs (did she have any lungs? She didn't even know what lungs were), the rag doll bent her arm, and used it to raise herself into a more convenient sitting position. Bracing her weight in both of her arms now, she looked around once again, from a slightly altered perspective.

"Where am I?" She asked, in a vague, dreamy voice. Perhaps a more appropriate question would be _who_, so she decided to ask that, too. "Who am I?"

He could have choked with self-satisfaction and pride.

"Well my dear, you are in a laboratory, at Finklestein Manor. You are my charge, my creation." He used the word 'my' with a sickening gloat in his voice, with a sense of ownership. The girl found this irritated her, but her face remained smooth and impassive.

"Yes… yes." She said, nodding. She did not much like being his, his anything. "But what is my _name."_

That brought the Doctor up short. "Well, you have none." He said, blinking his beady little eyes rapidly. He had not thought to give her a name, why would she need one? Perhaps Finklestein had not wagered on the rag doll having emotions, or thoughts in her simple little head. Surely he could not underestimate her, for there was nothing there to underestimate.

"Oh." She breathed, surprised. A name might have made her her own, a unique name especially. "Well, may I have one?" She tacked on, as a clumsy afterthought.

Already, she was making demands. This piqued Finklestein's agitation and short temper, for who was she to ask something of him? He'd given her life. Granted, she was to be his personal servant, cooking and cleaning, tending to him. But that existence was better than none, was it not?

"Hmm." He mumbled, taking a good look at the plain, scarred, rag doll before him. She was meant to look disfigured, but had come together in an utterly smooth way. Not quite matching, but charming and not as hideous as many of the monsters one might meet around town.

A pity.

Nothing special, he thought, aside from being a creation. What to name this creature of his, with her dumb innocence and dishonest body?

"You can be Sally." He told her, before steering himself toward a heap of mismatched scraps of cloth.

"Igor!" He called, and instantly a stooped little man came dragging into the room. One glance at the Doctor's unclothed creation spread a furious crimson blush across his cheeks. It was unbecoming of him, not a pleasant countenance. He resembled a disfigured, ugly tomato.

"Yes massster?" He hissed raggedly, avoiding looking at the rag doll woman.

"Go fetch a needle, and a spool of thread. Give them, along with this pile of cloth, to Sally." He motioned toward the rag doll.

Igor nodded, stooping even more so to gather the scraps in his arms. He dropped them by the platform, upon which Sally remained seated. She watched the ugly little man curiously, wondering why he was so red.

Igor came back shortly, bearing a needle and a spool of black thread. Settling them by her bare thigh, he brushed her naked leg with his fingertips. Sally flinched away, bewildered by his mildly intimate touch. Finklestein struck Igor with the back of his gloved hand, sending the servant reeling. A sudden fury had transformed his warped and funny little face into something dangerous.

"You are not to touch her!" He shrieked, chasing after Igor with his wheelchair, brandishing his fist and spewing terrifying threats. Sally shrunk backwards, drawing her knees to her exposed chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Was this what she had to look forward to? One wrong move, and a harsh rebuke. More than harsh really.

The Doctor returned, his breathing labored.

"You will fashion yourself a dress out of these pieces of clothe, obscure your indecency." He instructed, before leaving the room.

Leaving his rag doll creation to herself. For the first time in her incredibly short time, she was alone.

But it would not be the last.


End file.
